


Halcyon

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Canon - Movie, F/M, First Time, Lasso Play, Spoilers, set during movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 12:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11081598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: They have tonight....and they will take it, without second thought, and certainly without regret.





	Halcyon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brodinsons (aeon_entwined)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/gifts).



> ...so, I got home from seeing the movie at nine pm this evening. It's now one-thirty in the morning and I have nearly 5k of fic to show for myself. [hands over face] So: it's quick, and it's dirty (I likely should swing by and re-edit it at a more sane hour), but I just couldn't help myself. I'm also going to blame @brodinsons for all of this, JUST BECAUSE.
> 
> I've never written these characters before, so that's a disclaimer -- the fic's also set during the movie, for obvious reasons. God, I need to work out how to fix-it fic these two (though right now I'm distracted by trying to work out what the name of one particular Amazon is -- you know the one, she screamed and ran to Antiope ~~I MUST KNOW FOR _REASONS_~~ ). But...in the meantime, we have this. It's titled the way it is for several reasons, but one of them is that I was listening [to this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bV-hSgL1R74) while plotting it out, so. Whoops. <3

With the door closed behind them, standing now between them both and the world beyond, they are nothing but themselves. And she smiles, again, joy seeping from her skin like the sun shimmering across some distant familiar sky. It is but the simplest thing to reach out, to touch her fingertips to his skin, to feather them across the strangeness of stubble and snow she finds there.

“Diana,” he says, the words a rasp both ragged and rough. Still she smiles; he closes his eyes against it, like a man pushed to his knees before the gods. “ _Diana_ ,” he says, again, and it is as if she has hurt him. But it seems a welcome pain, one that serves to remind him that he is alive. That _they_ are alive.

As she drifts closer, her smile begins to ache. They cannot entirely close out the world beyond these walls, but then she would not wish to. She can hear them still, voices raised in laughter and song, and she is glad for it. Veld, this strange and simple village in a world she barely knows, is as alive as they are. They have fought for it, and they have won.

“We can take our reward,” she whispers, and his eyes pop open, brow suddenly and deeply furrowed.

“Is this what you think it is?” It’s incredulous, and not a little hurt. “Because, Diana – I don’t need a _reward_. I didn’t do this for…for some sort of _payment_.”

Her fingers shift, touch light over his hair, faintly stiff even as the day’s rigours have stripped from it much of the strange product he uses to keep it out of his face and eyes. “I know you didn’t,” she replies, and it is as easy as it is true. “But at a battle’s end, the victors are allowed their moment of glory.”

A faint darkness shifts over his eyes, quick in a way that speaks of long and bitter familiarity. “But it hasn’t ended. Not yet.” A distance enters his gaze, then, even as his eyes shift to the closed window. “Tomorrow—”

Her fingers take his chin, pull it back around. “It is still today.” It’s firm, enough, but she does not let it edge into true hardness as she adds, “And we still have tonight.”

For a moment, she thinks he might protest – and she will not make him stay, should he now chose to go. But he does not. Rather, he only watches her. It’s slow, almost strange, the way his eyes move over her cloaked form. And then he nods, lips pressed tight together, something oddly vulnerable in his eyes. This is a man who took up arms but hours ago, charging across No Man’s Land in her wake and in her name. His uncertainty now has her smiling, again, gentle and knowing.

“Be with me,” she says, and sees the way his eyes flare even as his body answers in ways his words cannot. “I want this.”

“I…I do too.” He pauses a moment, clears his throat, words taking on sudden strength. “But, Diana—”

Her fingers are soft against his lips, but she can see in his eyes that he knows how she tempers their true strength. “I know my own mind,” she tells him, “and I know my own body.” Moving closer, still, she smiles again. “Now I want you to know it, too.”

A shiver courses through him, like the strike of god-willed lightning. Even as she steps back, Diana cannot help but indulge the pleasure that thrums through her to see the way his eyes curve over her body, too quick and too hungry. She’s smiling still and she can’t help it as she strips away the armour, every movement light and easy. When it is done, she merely raises an eyebrow, and delights in his thunderstruck silence.

“Is there a problem, Steve?”

“I…” His throat works, hard and sudden, as if he has tried to take a sip and instead has swallowed the ocean instead. “Well,” he says, and something of his usual composure returns, though it’s hardly as rakishly brash as before. “It would have been nice to unwrap my gift myself, I suppose, but…this will work.”

One hand moves to her hip, lets it tilt in tandem with the arched eyebrow. “You won’t take a reward, but now you call me a _gift_?”

“You _are_ a gift, Diana.” The simple honesty of it burns, bright and bold; she opens her mouth to laughter, but it does not come before he adds, “And I’m not sure we entirely deserve you.”

That gives her sudden pause. This echo of her mother’s words is a bittersweet vibration down her spine, a sudden strange flutter in her heartbeat. But it steadies, soon enough, and she presses memory aside as she steps close to new reality. “I can decide that for myself,” she says, very steady. And his own smile is lopsided, almost heartbreaking in its simplicity.

“I never doubted it.” And that smile curves with sudden mischief, eyes just a little too bright. “Do you want to unwrap _me_ , then?”

A faint laugh, and she’s cupping his cheek, shaking her head. “No,” she says, and his pout only draws further laughter. “Give me a little show, yes?”

He blinks, just once. “What, you want me to dance?”

“You’re the one who said you’d show me how.” Without breaking their locked gaze, Diana walks herself slowly back, her body shifting in silken movement until her thighs hit the high edge of their borrowed bed. Lowering herself to perch there, she cannot help but smile to watch his gaze shift, now following the long line of one leg as she crosses it over the other.

“Steve?”

Even at the prompt, he still stares. “…yes?”

One ankle moves with impatient flick; his eyes shift up, and she doesn’t suppress a snort. “Do you _always_ make a woman wait?”

“I…” With shoulders straightening, spine gone rigid, his resolve is returned. “You want a dance, then?”

She can’t help the little tease. “Perhaps just a little…sway.”

With a light snort of his own, Steve bends himself to task with a speed she cannot help but be glad of. He doesn’t make a production of it, but his hands are deft and quick over buttons and laces. A fluttering has begun already, low and deep in her stomach, simply to watch those long fingers _move_ ; already she squirms in anticipation of them pressed over her own skin. But then he straightens, stands before her as he had that day in the pools, and all sensible thought flees her mind.

“Above average, you said?” she says, without thought. And his hands are on his hips, smirk far too pleased for her tastes.

“And I do know full well how to use it,” he says, not quite bothering to be less than boastful; with her eyes firmly on his, she feigns a tone of tedium.

“Well, yes. I would expect a good soldier to know _all_ his weapons.”

That gives him strange and sudden pause – and for a moment, thinks she has perhaps said the wrong thing. But his eyes have flicked to her armour, neatly and lightly stacked on the chair across from the bed. The small table at its side holds sword and shield and lasso, and his eyes burn in the faint golden gleam of the braided leather.

“Steve?”

He lingers but a moment too long. Then, he is turning back, moving forward; he actually _sways_ towards her, though each barefoot step is careful in its indolence. Then he is before her, again, and she cannot help but breathe a quick startled breath. The scent of him is a powerful thing, this close; they have not had a chance to bathe away a day of grime and sweat and the acrid taste of gunpowder and smoke, though she cares not for that. There’s still something in him as he stands before her that she cannot quite ascertain. Glancing up, one eyebrow tilted, she sees him as if a penitent come before his queen, and she _knows_.

“You want something from me.”

“I – well.” He allows himself a chuckle, light and easy for all she can taste how it is also force. “I would have thought that much was obvious.”

And it is; the half-hardness of his flesh is a new kind of heat, so very close to her thigh now. But she raises a hand instead, fingers pressed to his cheek, forcing his eyes to meet her own. “Ask it,” she says, and the command is a shiver along his skin.

“Diana…”

“Steve.” It is a tone that brooks no disrespect. “ _Ask me_.”

And his throat works hard, again; when the words come, they are slow, forced. “The…the lasso.”

Somewhere inside, she smiles. “Yes?”

“I…” Surely he can see the smile in her eyes, she can’t possibly hope to mask it there. “It’ll sound _stupid_.”

When she nods, that is not what she agrees with. “You want me to use it?” she asks, and when he stills, she wonders again that perhaps she has gone too far. And indeed, he draws back, steps away, turns with shoulders hunched and head bent down.

“I _knew_ I shouldn’t have said anything.”

She stands without thought, moves behind. Though she does not doubt he knows her presence, he does not withdraw, does not retreat. And so, it is almost too easy to open her palm against his hip, to draw him back; pressing herself to the length of his spine, she fits her hips to his buttocks, both arms now around his waist. His hair rough burns against her cheek as she moves her lips to his ear.

“Steve,” she says, so very soft. “If that is your wish.”

When he turns in the circle of her arms, his cheeks burn with high flush, eyes too bright. “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

With a smile, again, she cradles his cheek, draws him down. His lips beneath hers are dry and cracked and yet somehow terribly, perfectly sweet. “Come lay down.” Though she draws away, she’s already taking his hand. “Let me.”

“I should be showing _you_.”

His frustration, more resigned than irritated, draws from her a faint laugh. “Are you so sure?” she asks, unable to be anything but playful; he sighs in return, passes a hand back through his hair.

“…well. You did say you’d studied all _twelve_ volumes, I guess.”

But there’s still tension to him, even as he lays down upon his back, stretched out over the faded bedspread. For a moment, all she can do is _look_. But she cannot dally long; she knows better than to turn her eyes from a battle. Diana instead takes her place at his side, their bodies long and lean in the guttering golden candlelight.

The faint sound of voices still rises and falls beyond the window, glass now lightly frosting as the snow continues to swirl, white against deep dark. But there is warmth, here, between them. And his kiss is sweeter still, growing bolder by the moment, drawing her closer and close. Side by side, now, she can feel his hardness between their hips, pressed against her belly. The ache, there, is demanding and familiar; she knows all too well the desire to move her own hand, to press fingers to her deepest centre and seek out that bold bright pleasure she knows so well.

But they move instead over new territory: the hardness of his hip, the softer valley of the dipped waist, the trembling ladder of his ribs as they cradle the quick stutter of his breath. In turn, Steve’s hands are in her hair, then tracing the valley of her spine, then lingering over the curve of buttock, and the hardness of a thigh; there, at last, he pauses. A moment, and he pulls one up, over his waist. She cannot help her gasp, the hardness of him suddenly so much more _present_ , but a moment from slipping between, from pressing up against where she desires it most.

With regret she draws back, breathless, something like laughter on her lips. “Wait.”

“I – what?” His confusion is a sweet thing, like honey on her lips, his eyes clouded and curious both. But he does not protest, even as he watches her rise, though she can see the faint tension in limb and expression. She simply smiles back over her shoulder, shifts to her bare feet, and reaches for the little table.

Gathering it into her hands, for a moment, she must pause, breath caught; the faint hum of it is brilliant and lovely, like voices of distant dear memory. It _burns_ in her palms, golden and true. For a moment, her eyes feel damp, taut – but she turns back, and her smile does not falter.

“This _is_ what you wanted, yes?”

For a moment, it seems he will say nothing. And then his tongue darts out, wets over his lips, eyes fixed and true. “Yes.” A pause, and then it comes again, stronger and far more certain. “ _Yes_.”

There are many things she might do with it. There are so many knots, so many loops, so many tricks she might play. But for all they have all of tonight, he is entirely correct – tomorrow lurks not so far, a truth that is both bitter and welcome. And so, Diana presses aside her faint disappointment to instead revel in what they have now. There will be other days. She knows that in her heart. They can have this, here, and then, later—

She makes just a small loop, about one wrist. When she pulls, he gasps, hitching just a little too tight. Even as she smile, she does it again – and he closes his eyes, spine taut, hips moving in a sudden half-suppressed jerk. Her eyes follow the movement, fix upon that part of him that coils heat in her abdomen, even as some part of her wishes almost to laugh. _Is_ that _what men are so proud of?_ some part of her crows in disbelief. _Do they really believe_ that _could bring a woman true pleasure?_

“I’m afraid,” he says, sudden, eyes wide. And she looks up, amused and yet somehow oddly protective, and for a moment she wonders if he had been right, if this had been nothing more than a fanciful mistake. But he stares back, and though there’s fear, there is also – _relief_.

“I’m afraid I won’t satisfy you,” he says, half-choked, and she smiles; he is ridiculous, but she cannot help but feel the words like soft sunlight, dappled over her skin, warm familiar caress in this dreary landscape.

“I chose you.” Her fingers shift light over the taut bridge of gold between them. “And I chose to be here.”

“I know. I just—” He shifts, restless as the ocean they had crossed to come here. “I’ve never known anybody like you, before,” he says, and the confess is rapid, his eyes widening, white about the pure clear blue. “I never even _wanted_ to.”

When she moves close, he is already on his side, again. Their eyes meet, and though there remains a physical distance between them, it means nothing in the end. Diana loops the lasso between her fingers, draws his hand upward, the golden length in her hands like well-woven tapestry. There, she presses it over her own heart, even as her left hand moves down; so easily it ghosts callused tips along the frank heat of him. As he gasps, shudders, she smiles with a sadness that she cannot, does not want to understand.

“It’s hard to know, perhaps,” she says, sorrowful and slow, “what we truly want.”

“I want _you_ ,” he gasps again, and she smiles, feels the hitch of his heartbeat, and nods.

“I know.”

He’s closing his eyes, now, tight and straining; this is bondage he had asked for, but still he struggles, even as he begins a slow thrust into her hand. “No, but…” His hips thrust upwards, twice and tight, and he shakes his head, again. “I don’t…I _can’t_ …”

“You can tell me, Steve,” she says, gentle, hand moving down the shaft with low twist. And his eyes burst open, panicked and pained, lips curled over words he cannot hold back.

“But I _can’t_!” he bursts out. “That’s the whole _point_!”

But he cannot move from her, still pressing up into her working touch. It’s a strange movement, entirely unfamiliar, but for all he struggles with words, the truth of it is writ clear upon his features. “I know,” she says, and he sags back, even as he still moves into her touch.

“Do you?” he asks, and still she smiles.

“I believe so.”

Steve lets his eyes fall closed, again. Quickening her rhythm, Diana cannot help but feel pleasure to see how he surrenders to her touch; his breath remains hard and quick and ragged, and when he speaks, he barely has power enough to do so. “Diana,” he whispers. “Diana, I…”

“Let it go, Steve,” she says, so soft. “Let me in.”

When he opens his eyes, his mouth, too, is half-fallen. There are words, there, but not even the lasso can coax them from him now. Instead, there is undeniable heat, spilling over her fingers; still her hand moves, sure and certain. Shivering, shuddering, Steve moves through the crest and the coast of his pleasure. Diana slows only as his body falls to relaxation, sagging into the worn mattress, eyes falling closed with something that tastes almost of despair.

“…that was hardly my most impressive performance.”

Diana allows herself only a light hum; raising her hand, she turns it over before her own eyes, curiosity twisting her stomach with abrupt delight. And then, before clear thought can counsel otherwise, she moves her tongue over fingers, not quite able to deny the light reflexive crinkling of her nose. But she does not stop, the taste of him faintly salty, and somehow not what she might have expected. There’s a sound beneath her, choked and sudden; when she glances over, she finds Steve staring with eyes dominated by pupils blown wide, wrist very still where the lasso still holds it tight.

“That’s so fucking hot.” And he flushes bright red, right to the roots of his hair. “I mean – I just – _fuck_!”

Smiling, Diana finishes her work, politely ignores his whimper when she leans down to carefully unwind the golden braid. “It’s all right, Steve.”

But for all his body ought to give over to the pleasure it has sought, and taken so true, Steve pushes up, back now pressed up against the bedhead. The back of one hand moves over his eyes, mouth downturned in sharp grimace.

“I ruined it.”

She raises a curious eyebrow, for all he can hardly see as much. “How so?”

“You _did_ say a man didn’t know how to bring a woman true pleasure.” His arm moves, his expression somewhere between wry and embarrassed. “And I hardly proved you wrong.”

“What, do you just accept that for the truth?” She curves close, voice low potent hum. “And here I hoped you’d take it as a _challenge_.”

The darkening gaze teaches her something she’d never known of desire. Then, he’s moving forward, hands on her, pulling her down. The strength of him is nothing like her own. But then – she did not _want_ it to be. Fragile things, are mortals; she’d seen that in those cut down on the beach, mere days ago. But then, they’d still spilled Amazon blood, too. It seems their doom, to be always more than what they merely seem.

But she all too willingly lets him gather her close; one arm circles around her, pushing upward even as he presses her thighs up over his own. With his body curving around her, the fingers of that same hand stray further still. They first trace the swell of one breast; even as she looses a gasp, they dare further still. Fingertips, knowing in their mischief, close light over her nipple. Then, they turn deeply teasing, and _tighter_. Another gasp, this one which he swallows down – and it transmutes to something sharper and far more sudden as his hand moves down between her thighs.

The fingers prove thick, blunt, but strangely gentle, in their own way. But they are not shy. His confidence of earlier has returned, and as he crooks and rolls his wrist, she cannot claim it to be entirely unwarranted. He knows how to follow her response, how to read the movement of her hips, the shift of her spine, the quickening breath that curves hoarse around the litany of her gasping half-words.

When she comes, he does not take it as victory; rather, he seems to see it as defeat, laying siege to her again and again, wringing from her two, three, four more gasping desperate releases. He stops only when she pushes his hand away, but he’s grinning, his fingers rising, sucked into his mouth. Diana only watches, the world around her hazy and bright even as her body trembles still with the aftershocks of pleasure. And then she’s leaning forward, kissing him, tasting herself on his tongue even as she feels, too, the richness of the chuckle beneath.

Then, she is drifting, laid upon her back. For the heat of him remains near, pressed to one side, the coolness of the air has a fresh bite. But when she shifts, he sighs.

“I didn’t even show you that I know how to use this weapon of mine.”

Smiling, she turns her head, raises an eyebrow. “Am I telling you to stop?”

That makes him snort, and though there’s something like defeat there, it’s wry and amused. “Yeah, well. It’s not quite loaded at the moment, if you catch my meaning.” But she turns, now, curls against him, her hand already moving in knowing stroke.

“Shall I help?”

Rueful though the words prove to be, he doesn’t pull back. “Clever as you are, I’m not sure even you can go against a man’s basic biology.” But she does so anyway, soft and slow. He closes his eyes, lets out a slow exhale. And she watches his face, lets time fade to nothingness. And he hardens, again; though he looks down, she still hears his smile. “…consider me corrected.”

But even though she had invited this, as she glances down now there comes a strange tightening in her chest. It’s not an alien concept, perhaps – but she has never known something quite like _this_. But Diana has never turned from what she wants, and she hesitates not as she rises, pushes him again to his back. She works him, still, meeting his eyes with open challenge. Half on her own side, she allows her own breasts to push against his side; with her hips pressed to his, her hand still working over him.

“Diana.” It takes him a long, fraught moment to gather sense enough to speak. “Are you—”

“Yes.” Without second thought she straddles him, forearms pressed to either side of his startled face. And here her smile falters, his face a strange dichotomy of light and shadow. Daylight is still far, and – for a moment, she can think only of the man in the square. He wanted a photograph, he’d said. A moment of time, captured and stilled in a strange vagrancy of light, to be kept and treasured and never forgotten again.

His hand breaks the strange spell, moving between them, guiding himself upward even as she begins to move down in turn. The fullness of him inside her is not so strange, but: the _heat_. She had not expected that, perhaps, nor the pure pulsing pressure of it. But she does not close her eyes. Meeting his instead, she lets him sliding deep, taking him fully. There is silence between them, a pause lengthening by the moment. Then: she _moves_ , and he follows. Diana makes her own rhythm, but Steve so easily makes to match it.

It’s slow, to start. But Diana does not know when it grows quick, frenzied. She knows only his hands, over her hips; there is nothing of possession in it, just: something steadying, and sure. It seems almost a reminder, though of what, she does not quite know. But his eyes rise always to meet her, too, bright and almost blinding. His lips are moving, and she frowns, even as she moves faster; with the blood pounding in her eyes, her heartbeat wild and free, she cannot hear him at all.

And then, suddenly, she does. “Let me,” he gasps, fingertips bruising upon her skin. “Diana, let me, I can’t – I can’t _hold_ it – Diana, I have to—”

“Steve,” she whispers. A groan, and it is over for him, again; the heat bursts inside her, startling and strange and somehow wonderful. She moves him through it, and only when he has stilled, again, does she pause herself. Yet, she only leans back, still over and above him. His eyes have fallen closed, face taut and taken over. She’s content to watch, now, even as her own arousal still roils and twists inside. When he opens his eyes, they grow wide.

“I should—”

With a shake of her head, she shifts about his length, still deep within her. He hisses, and she smiles still, hand shifting down. It skitters over the heat of them both, where they are still joined, and he groans, again: slave to this sweet blazing agony. But she does not linger, moving instead to her own centre. It’s slow, at first, for all she already burns. But it’s almost too easy to work herself to inferno, heat crashing down every nerve, her mind turning to white-hot blaze. Beneath her he twitches, groaning again, eyes fixed upon her as though she is all the world he need ever know.

When at last she rises, she can’t help a grimace at the oddness of it, damp between her thighs. But she feels no desire to wash it away. Instead, she presses to his side, waits for the exhausted turn of his head. He’s watchful, almost wary – but then, she has never known Steve Trevor for a coward.

“Diana?”

“Yes?”

“I…” His eyes shift to his wrist: bare, now, slim and sinewy with it. Reaching forward, her fingers close so easily about its width. And it’s just as easy to move his arm entire, bringing it to rest over and around her.

“Steve,” she says, light purest command. “It’s time to sleep.”

But he does not take this command. His eyes remain upon hers, searching and yet somehow still with it. There’s something upon the tip of his tongue, unsaid, desperate to be spoken. But the lasso lies coiled at their bedside, and when Diana moves, it is only to fit her lips over his own.

“Or don’t you want to sleep with me, now?” she whispers, and he groans.

“ _Diana_.” It’s wry, exasperated, intensely fond. “Honestly.”

“Honestly, what?”

She doesn’t quite expect the edge of sorrow to his sigh, though he does not look away. It still takes him a long moment to speak the words aloud. “I just…never knew that it was like… _this_.”

“Oh, and you thought _I_ would need instruction?”

But her feigned offense goes unnoticed, unmarked. “No,” he says, and his eyes are deep strange ocean. “You know the truth for what it is.” When he pauses, there is a weight to his words that makes her think of bullets, and of bodies that had never before known their strike. “And you’ll never look away from it,” he continues, relentless, and his eyes upon her never once break faith. “I don’t think you could, even if you wanted to.”

“Steve—”

“You’re right,” he says, and it’s sudden, though his eyes say what the words do not. “Sleep.” But he breaks, just a little, when he adds, “We can talk more, tomorrow.”

She cannot hold back a yawn, jaw-cracking and wide; she cannot miss his smile as she stretches, muscles aching in ways both new and old. And then she’s burrowing close, not letting him even consider being something like a gentleman. “Yes,” she says, and nods. “We can.”

His arms come around her, reflexive and easy. Diana knows she should rise before they grow too comfortable; they should make use of the water and milled soap, cleaning away something of both the day and now this night, too. But in the end, paradise is what one wants it to be. And Diana is content to lay here, to watch as his breathing smooths out into the rhythm of sleep, as regular as the press of waves against the shore. Closing her eyes, with cheek over his chest and the taste of salt on her lips, she listens only to his heartbeat strong and true. The heat on her skin is the memory of Themiscyra, and she finds it as welcome as she does bittersweet.

And when she sleeps, too, Diana has no fear of morning.


End file.
